


12 Days of Ficmas 2016: Eggnog

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Morning, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Kisses, Sleepy Sherlock, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: On Christmas morning in 221B, John brings Sherlock breakfast in bed.





	12 Days of Ficmas 2016: Eggnog

“Good morning and happy Christmas,” John murmured against Sherlock’s hair, burrowing back beneath the quilts and wriggling close by his side to warm himself.

“ _Mmm_.”

Sherlock’s cheek drew up as he smiled; John could feel the motion beneath the tip of his nose.

“Breakfast in bed for the prettiest man in London,” John added in hushed tones, and littered tight-lipped, light kisses over the side of Sherlock’s face, onto his ear, against his hair and temple and the tail of his eyebrow.

Sherlock shifted so they were face-to-face, and dropped one heavy hand onto John’s hip, slid it up beneath the back of his t-shirt, tracing his shoulder blade, fitting his fingertips into the divot.

“It’s the last of that spice cake Mrs Hudson made.”

This earned another long hum of approval, and a nudge with Sherlock’s nose against his cheek, in the crease beside John’s nose, like some gentle, wild thing learning and claiming him by scent.

“Tea, as well.” John shimmied his body down a bit, tipped Sherlock’s head back with a gently persuasive hand at his jaw, and began to open his mouth here and there against the scratchy, stubble-roughened throat. The tip of his tongue flicked out every so often and Sherlock’s hand at his back became restless in response, and Sherlock’s knee rose to insinuate itself between John’s thighs. John traced a hand down Sherlock’s side, felt the rack of his ribs, his breath expanding and collapsing his torso, the sharp edge of his pelvis, the soft curve of his rump.

Sherlock hummed, and ducked to drop a kiss in John’s hair. John edged down farther, his head vanishing beneath the top edge of the quilts, skimmed his nose along the seam between arm and chest, no purposeful inhalation, but Sherlock’s dark, sleepy scent made him growl. He licked his lips and kissed his way across Sherlock’s pectoral, appreciative of the way Sherlock rolled his chest open, inviting.

“Is that whisky?” Sherlock asked, puzzlement and amusement both at play in his tone. He lifted the edge of the covers and John looked up at him looking down.

“It’s eggnog.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, frowning. “It’s not.”

“I left out all the ingredients we don’t have, don’t like, or are allergic to.”

“So it _is_  whisky.”

“With a pinch of cinnamon.”

“Ah,” Sherlock allowed, grinning, stroking John’s bicep with gentle fingers. “Anyway, please continue. The tea’s getting cold. And feel free to tell me again and again how pretty I am.”

John chuckled, nuzzled into Sherlock’s chest once more. “Perfectly lovely Christmas angel,” he said, grinning, against the warm skin over his heart.

“In a non-ridiculous way.”

“My man,” John murmured, and kissed. “My pretty. . .pretty. . .pretty man.”

 _“Mmm_.”


End file.
